They didn't mean to end up in the abandoned wardrobe temple.
One minute they were following Vampher's terribly accurate instincts ("The wind is humming in C minor; the path must turn left"), and the next, they were being judged by a room full of furniture.
The temple doors creaked open with theatrical flair—clearly enchanted for dramatic timing—and revealed a vast chamber filled wall-to-wall with wardrobes, drawers, ottomans, and exactly one armchair that radiated the unmistakable aura of smug evil.
"This is it," Dee Megus whispered with awe. "The Temple of Unused Dialogue and Lost Socks."
"I thought this was the Fifth House of Reflection," Vampher said, squinting at a sign by the door.
"It's both," Dee said. "Budget cuts in the universe. Dimensions have to double up now."
"I don't like how that chair is staring at me," Hiro muttered. "I feel like it knows my credit score."
"That's the Slightly Evil Chair," Dee said solemnly. "Don't sit on it unless you want to start quoting poetry and making morally grey decisions."
Hiro took a cautious step back.
The furniture pulsed gently with a strange sentience, creaking and whispering. Wardrobes opened and closed on their own, some revealing nothing but darkness, others showing flashes of half-forgotten scenes: a girl running through rain, a lost birthday, a hug never given.
"These are memory cupboards," Dee explained, running his hand along a carved door. "People used to come here to store the moments they couldn't bear to carry."
"That's… sad," Hiro said, brushing a bit of dust off a trunk that whispered almost.
"It's also convenient," Vampher said, opening a cabinet that tried to close around his hand. "If you want to forget, this is the place."
The armchair scoffed.
Loudly.
They all turned.
"You got something to say, Cushions?" Hiro challenged.
The chair made a dismissive harrumph noise.
"Okay, I'm about to commit a war crime against upholstery," Hiro muttered.
"No violence," Dee said. "It's bonded to the temple's soul. You break it, we might get sent to the Bureaurealm of Furniture Affairs."
"The what?"
"Don't ask. Bureaucracy with ottomans. It's horrifying."
They wandered deeper into the temple, past a wardrobe that only whispered compliments, and a mirror that aged you backward but added eyeliner. Hiro refused to look into it again.
Eventually, they reached the center: a raised stone dais, surrounded by chests shaped like hearts, eyes, and stars. In the middle sat a wardrobe glowing softly from within.
Dee stopped.
"Oh," he said.
"'Oh' what?" Vampher asked.
"That's mine," Dee admitted. "My first memory vault."
"You mean you stored something here?" Hiro asked. "I thought you were too dramatic to forget anything."
"I forget on purpose," Dee said. "Sometimes the pain is too sharp to polish."
The wardrobe clicked open on its own, slowly, with the sound of sighing rain.
Inside was a single folded coat.
Old. Moth-bitten. Heavy with time.
Vampher stared. "That's—"
"The one I wore when I made you," Dee said. "When I ran away."
The humor faded for a moment, like a flame drawing in breath.
"You didn't leave me," Vampher said quietly, "You ran."
Dee nodded. "I was afraid. I made you to carry the weight of everything I couldn't admit."
Hiro looked between them, the awkward third party at a very personal therapy session inside IKEA.
"But you came back," Vampher said, stepping forward. "And you're walking. Mostly."
"Only because you forced me to," Dee muttered.
"And your kettle judged you."
"Harshly," Dee said with a small smile. "She said I had emotionally limp ankles."
Vampher sighed. "You're impossible."
"I'm improving."
The wardrobe door closed gently on its own.
Then, softly, from one of the drawers nearby, came a voice:
"Would you like to store another sorrow?"
They looked at each other.
Then, to their surprise, Hiro stepped forward.
"I'd like to store one regret," he said. "Just for now."
The drawer opened. He reached into his jacket, and pulled out a small marble. Cracked. Pale blue.
"A gift from Koro," he said, placing it inside. "I'll come back for it when I'm ready."
The drawer closed.
"Look at you," Dee said gently. "Growing emotionally in a temple filled with sarcastic wardrobes."
"Shut up," Hiro mumbled, ears pink.
On the way out, the Evil Chair tried to tempt them again.
"Sit here and embrace your inner villain," it whispered, voice like oil on silk.
"I already do that when I monologue," Dee said, patting the armrest.
The chair growled.
"I liked it better when the golem was around," Hiro muttered. "He never judged me for taking a nap on magical furniture."
"He's probably surrounded by fairies right now, sipping dew and debating the ethics of root systems," Dee said.
"Lucky moss-brained boulder," Hiro sighed.
They walked out together, three shapes in mismatched shadows.
The world outside was lighter. The skies calmer.
And behind them, the temple quietly sealed shut—its drawers whispering, wardrobes humming, and the Slightly Evil Chair muttering something about unionizing.
Not all healing was loud.
Sometimes, it came wrapped in laughter, cradled in absurdity, and carried forward by people who stayed—even when they were broken.
Especially when they were broken.